Anna Dolezal

Sunday dripped blood and beef fat.
Pink brown, roast brown, Bisto brown.

Monday larded salty corpuscles
On open fire singed toast.

Tuesday minced leftovers.
Shepherd’s pie, carrots and peas.

Wednesday scrambled eggs.
Offered up baked beans, bread,
Stringent HP or a tomato sauce splodge,
That sometimes landed on my plate
Coaxed with a knife, diluted with vinegar,
Breaking the monotony.

Thursday.
My guess is as good as yours.

Friday always fished and chipped,
Nameless, flavourless chunks of white.

Saturday is as good as forgotten.
Saturday dredges bottom-dwelling memory.

Inevitable hues repeated.
Same colours, different gravy.